


Find Your Place

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis returns to the musketeers regiment and answers the question to whether or not he's rusty. (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Your Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to take place between seasons 2 and 3, and deals with the fandom assumption/speculation that Aramis doesn't immediately join the musketeers again even after everyone goes to get him in 2x10. This fic deals with the day when Aramis does come back - and is based off of some promo pics that have floated around for season 3. 
> 
> There are no explicit spoilers for season 3, since well I don't know anything... this is just speculation and within a month or so (A MONTH!!!) will likely be semi-AU. ~~Eventually I will write pwp that is not just blowjobs, I swear.~~
> 
> Enjoy :D

In the end Porthos wonders if maybe there should have been more fanfare, getting Aramis back again after so long. The war has been a long one, but they’ve made it all out – the four of them, together. And somehow watching Aramis stroll into the garrison again as if he’s never been gone does something deep down in Porthos’ gut. Even more so when he catches sight of the pauldron on his shoulder. He’d seen Athos sorting through spare leather the other day, knew that it was coming, and yet seeing it in its proper place is something else entirely. 

He’s back where he belongs, Porthos thinks with no small amount of emotion, even if he doesn’t voice it aloud. He knows that, even after years apart, Aramis would understand it without Porthos having to say it. It’s been a long time. It’s been a long war, Aramis far away from the three of them. There’d been a few times when Porthos was afraid that Aramis would just leave again, return to the monastery now that the war is finally over. 

He knows this, too, because he looks over and Aramis is smiling at him – his expression soft and fond and _yes_. Yes, he remembers this. He remembers this now – it’s like waking up again after years of quiet, after years of sleep. 

He isn’t angry. He could never be angry, not even when he knew why Aramis was leaving. Not running away, but running towards what he felt was best. He could never fault Aramis for that – no matter how much it hurt. Could never love him less for it. 

Still, having him back now – that. That’s more than he can think. 

And it’s so easy how quickly they fall back into it all. There’s d’Artagnan teasing Aramis for being rusty, of not being able to hold a sword as Aramis steadies the rapier between his hands, tests its weight. There’s Athos slightly off to the side but still involved, the shadow of a smile quirking at one corner of his mouth – and he’s _captain_ now, and that’s strange enough even after all these years. But this – this all feels so familiar, especially when Aramis makes a scoffing sound to d’Artagnan’s jests. 

“I am _not_ out of practice,” he protests, shrugs out of his coat and rolls his shoulders. The soft grey of his linen shirtsleeves shift with his movement, expose one edge of his shoulder before he keeps rolling his joints, warming himself up. 

“Oh yeah?” d’Artagnan teases, tongue sharp and already a moment away from launching into more deprecation. “I don’t know, Aramis, it’s been a while…”

“I am perfectly aware of what you’re doing,” Aramis begins.

“Dunno, Aramis,” Porthos joins in, “You were a man of the cloth – who knows how much rust you have to shake from your bones now?” 

The look Aramis gives him is surprised for only half a moment before his smile breaks out across his face – lights up his eyes. And Porthos suddenly feels overly warmed. 

“Well then,” he says, tips his chin up in a shadow of Porthos’ usual move when facing down a fight he knows he can win. “I suppose you’ll have to challenge me so I might prove my worth.” 

There’s laughter, mostly from d’Artagnan, who scuffs his feet against the ground, poises, waves his sword through the air to meet against Aramis’ – and what follows is a friendly match between the two of them. Aramis loses his footing a few times but overall proves his continued strength in fighting, even against d’Artagnan’s mass improvements over the years. Aramis is grinning, sweat beading at his brow, and Athos folds his arms and leans against the post leading to the stables to watch the proceedings. Aramis laughs when his rapier clangs up against d’Artagnan’s, and d’Artagnan just kicks up dirt towards his face so Aramis has to duck away.

“Oh, you’ve been taught well!” Aramis laughs, points a wicked smile in Porthos’ direction before he has to bow down and focus against d’Artagnan’s onslaught.

The match lasts longer than expected, but it’s hardly a long match – nothing like the long strings of testing that might pass between Athos and d’Artagnan. Eventually, though, Aramis loses his grip on his sword and has to admit defeat to d’Artagnan – which he does so with only the smallest of pouts. 

“Alright, alright,” Aramis says with a wicked laugh, “I know when to admit defeat.” 

Porthos snorts, fondly to himself and to the words, returning his attention to the weaponry laid out upon the little table near Athos’ stairway to his office. He’s organizing and cleaning various pistols and shoulder straps. It’s boring work, but made better by the company. 

He feels happy. Happier than he has in years.

 

-

 

It’s half an hour later before Aramis’ hand presses to the table and Porthos looks up to see Aramis looking at him – expression softer, fonder. Up close, it’s exactly like Porthos remembers it being, and he realizes that he still hasn’t hugged him, still hasn’t welcomed him back. 

But Aramis gives him a lopsided, pleased smile and asks, “Shall you spar against me, too, and test your skills?” 

Porthos lifts one eyebrow. “Didn’t have enough punishment from d’Artagnan?” 

And d’Artagnan, sitting on the stairs leading up to Athos’ office, lets out a resounding laugh as he bites around an apple. “It’s true, Aramis. Porthos could throw you across the yard.” 

Aramis’ eyes – only on Porthos – turn heated at the suggestion. But he smiles, tilts his head, and says, “A match. Please.” 

Porthos can hardly resist that request, or that smile. He sighs out and grabs at the nearest sword before lifting himself up from the table. Aramis watches his every move and he seems to be in high spirits, seems full of excess energy – and Porthos feels that, too. 

As they both move their way to the center of the garrison, d’Artagnan and a few other musketeers, Athos up at his balcony all watching the proceedings, Aramis lets out an extravagant bow, never taking his eyes from Porthos. 

“Showing off already?” Porthos asks, can’t help but laugh, can’t stop himself from feeling like he’s floating up towards the sky. He grins, boyish and happy, in Aramis’ direction. 

“I have a few things I could show off, I’m sure,” Aramis says, and to anyone else it’s a goad – but Porthos knows that heat to Aramis’ gaze, even years and years after, even after his declaration of being a monk. Porthos does not shiver, but the urge is there. 

Porthos tests the balance of his sword for half a moment and then he brings it down, steps sharply to the ground, and moves towards Aramis. He isn’t the only one who can show off. His shirt slips off one shoulder, he feels it, feels the hot drag of Aramis’ eyes on his neck even as he lifts and shifts to meet him, blocks the swift arc of his sword. 

He thinks for a moment that it will be an awkwardness, a need to readjust to one another again – but as soon as he thinks it, he dismisses it. And it only takes a moment for them to move in sync with one another again – just like they always have, just like years haven’t passed between them but rather mere minutes. Aramis twists away, dodges, sharp-edged yet playful. Porthos doesn’t charge, but he goes out, aggressive, harsh and rough but always pulling the sword away before it can make any kind of hit against Aramis’ wrist or shoulder. His pulse is racing. Aramis laughs out, eyes bright. 

Aramis putting on a show hardly means he isn’t taking it seriously. He can see that hard glint in Aramis’ eyes – that love of danger, of the thrill of the chase – and he’s gorgeous. Too beautiful. 

Ducking and weaving, they fight to connect and then knock away from one another. There are distractions – there is laughter, goading, there is the quiet gasp of unexpected breath and determination. Aramis stumbles but Porthos recovers; Porthos swings but Aramis’ blade hits at Porthos’ shoulder – blunt edge to Porthos’ curving muscle. 

Their audience has grown and there’s some needling and goading from the sidelines now that Porthos only half-hears – murmurs that must be language, but might as well be words he’s never heard for all the attention he pays them: he stares only at Aramis, who catches his gaze and holds it. 

He’s missed this. He’s missed him. He can’t stop staring.

There’s some hoots and hollers when Porthos gets Aramis to trip with a well-planted foot and a jab from the pommel of his rapier, and Aramis flips his hair from his eyes and shoots a dazzling smile over his shoulder, finally breaking eye contact from Porthos. 

“Taking this seriously?” Porthos asks, sweeping his sword down only for Aramis to block it. 

Aramis’ lips part into a pleased smile when he looks back at Porthos, eyes warm this close up. There’s the touch of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes – crows feet, laugh lines, Aramis would be distressed to know they’re there all the same but it floods Porthos with a deep warmth. 

“Oh,” he says, and his smile is certainly flirtatious now, and _yes_ , he remembers this. He remembers all of this. “I always take you seriously, my dear Porthos.” 

They circle one another only a few more times, swinging toward one another, eyes not moving from one another now. Soon enough, fatigued from this fight plus the fight against d’Artagnan, Aramis loses his sword and gets Porthos’ arm pressed to his chest, pinning him against the far wall of the garrison. Aramis heaves in a deep breath, his pupils blown wide. 

“Damn it,” Porthos breathes out, gasps it out, and Aramis can only give the smallest nod – their bodies radiating heat. And there is so much – there is too much that Porthos wants, that Porthos could take here. 

 

-

 

Likely, there’d be more teasing in store for Aramis – but that hardly matters. Instead, Aramis follows Porthos as he makes his way towards his room, knows that Aramis will follow him. 

The door shuts behind them and Aramis breathes out in a slow breath that Porthos feels down the length of his spine as he shivers around it. 

“I’ve missed you,” Porthos says, turns, already finds Aramis moving into his space and curling his arms around his neck and anchoring himself to him. They hug – for too long, for not long enough; the kind of hug that transcends friendship, full-bodied and all-feeling, the kind of hug that can only be felt behind closed doors. Porthos’ hands settle at the small of Aramis’ back, slides up over his spine, traces at the edges of his shoulder blades. 

“Porthos,” Aramis breathes, and it’s everything and nothing at once. 

And then Aramis draws back, looks at him, and pulls Porthos down for a fierce kiss, moaning out against his lips. He crowds against Porthos, presses him up against the wall. Porthos goes willingly, melts into Aramis. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, and his name takes on a different weight when Aramis pulls back to look at him, touches at his face. And then there’s the lick of wickedness in his eyes again, the slow curve of his smile. “I assure you, there are many things I haven’t forgotten.” 

Porthos can’t even voice some kind of tease before Aramis drops down to his knees, hands dragging over Porthos’ hips, works at his belts like second nature, and slides his hand down to drag his palm over Porthos’ cock. And even if he knows it was coming, even if he was half-hard just from sparring with Aramis out in the open like that, this is enough to get him to gasp and press his hips up. 

Aramis presses kisses over Porthos’s stomach, his hips, his thighs. The grey shirt he’s been wearing, slick with sweat, drapes over his shoulders, his throat exposed when he tilts his head up to look at Porthos, smiling as he curls his fingers around Porthos’ cock and strokes.

“Shall I show you?” Aramis asks, and there’s that smile again, that laugh – as if nothing has changed at all. Maybe nothing has. Maybe it’s only been a slow moment of air between them, an expansion of years that means so very little when they are here and together and breathing in the same air. Porthos has felt Aramis’ absence like a physical ache for years, but this – this can only ever feel like home. 

“Yeah,” Porthos breathes out, leans back more heavily against the wall, hand lifting to curl into Aramis’ hair – natural, expected, unquestionable. Aramis makes a little murmur of happiness at that touch. 

Aramis closes his eyes, shivers, and shifts closer to him, hands cupping Porthos’ hips as he nuzzles to his stomach – a promise, then, for once he’s done here, once he’s finished worshipping Porthos for the first time in so many years. 

Aramis breathes out his name again, softer this time, more reverent, and his smile is gentle when he looks up at him. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Porthos reaches down, grips at him, pulls him back up – and Aramis goes willingly. They strip down each other in a battle of fumbling hands – their mouths pressing together in hurried kisses and stumbling laughter. Porthos backs Aramis up towards his bed and they both go, they both trip over one another, kissing open-mouthed and panting. Aramis whispers out his name – again and again, lets himself fall onto the bed and pull Porthos down, rolls them so Porthos is pressed on his back. Kisses him again and again.

And then Aramis wriggles down, slides down, runs his hands over him – and takes Porthos’ cock into his mouth. He smiles up at him, tongue curling, pulls back enough to say, “And now I’ll show you just what I haven’t forgotten.” 

And then he sucks Porthos off while Porthos bites into his lip to keep from shouting out. He rocks his hips up, hands fisting in Aramis’ hair to keep him close – and it’s like before, years ago. There’s the briefest moment where Aramis misjudges, tries to swallow him down and chokes out at his size – a moment where Porthos rocks up too quickly and Aramis draws back in surprise.

But they’ve known each other for too long, done this for too long for it to be anything unremembered – fueled by muscle memory, fueled by their own memories of their times together. 

Aramis is not quiet in his enthusiasm, he never is, he never has been – he’s moaning and sucking and slurping and lapping at his cock with his tongue and lips and mouth, and it’s as beautiful a sight as Porthos remembers it being, could never forget this. He curls his mouth tight around him and sucks him down from root to tip, curls his mouth, strokes his hands over his thighs, suckles and swallows around him. His mouth open, he drinks Porthos down and Porthos goes willingly, would always go willingly for Aramis. 

He is delirious in his happiness – flushed, shaking, shuddering out and pulling hard on Aramis’ hair in the way he knows he likes. Aramis keens out, wriggles closer, rocks his hips to press his own straining cock down against the bed. Porthos tries to muffle his sounds, but he’s louder with each passing moment – breathless gasps and hitching moans, rolling his hips up into Aramis’ waiting mouth, the slide of his tongue against the underside of his cock, curling tight around the tip. 

And it’s good – it’s so good and Porthos can hardly breathe for happiness, feeling the stretch of Aramis’ mouth, the weight of his hands, the beat of his breath against the curve of his cock. He tugs on his hair, hears Aramis sigh out his pleasure. 

And when he comes, it’s with a few thrusts, a whispered warning, but Aramis doesn’t draw back – just drinks him down, pins Porthos down by his hips and bobs his head. 

Porthos tugs him up once he’s spent, lets Aramis lean over him and curls his mouth around him, Aramis’ arms braced to the wall, his knees planted above his shoulders and rocking down to Porthos’ willing mouth – and Porthos watches Aramis as he moves, rocks his hips, hair falling across his eyes when he ducks his head and spends in Porthos’ waiting mouth.

They breathe together for a moment before Aramis shifts, pulls back, flops down onto the bed – and for one fearful moment, Porthos worries he’ll leave. 

“Told you I wasn’t rusty,” Aramis says, looking overly pleased with himself. 

Porthos barks out a surprised laugh. 

“I’ll clean up,” Aramis says, shifts as if to move.

Porthos shakes his head, tugs him in. He can remember his longing, can remember the heavy weight of remembering and wanting. “Nah. In a minute. Come here.” 

Aramis laughs but doesn’t move to go, just settles his weight against Porthos – trading slow and sloppy kisses, heavy and warm and comfortable in Porthos’ arms. 

Aramis settles over him, the full weight of his body against Porthos’. They kiss gently, slowly, savoring each other – their lips hardly parting between. 

“Stay,” Porthos whispers, mouths it out against his lips and feels Aramis’ responding shiver, the way his hands drag over him and hold to him, keep himself pressed there. Porthos whispers, “A while longer, anyway.” 

Aramis sighs out. “I’m not going anywhere.” He presses his hand to Porthos’ chest, drags his hand over his skin, rests at his heart. “I’m staying. This time, I’m staying.” 

Porthos refuses to acknowledge his eyes going misty at that. Instead, he pulls Aramis in. He kisses Aramis again and again and feels Aramis smile into it, muffled laughter, a little drowsy – clinging to him, pressing close to him, just enjoying that simple contact between the two of them. They fall asleep together like that, waking the next day only to kiss again and again, smiling and laughing between them. Home once again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you need me, I can be found on [my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
